


Highgate Mews

by stonecoldhedwig



Series: The Marauders' Map [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of gratuitous references to my favourite artists, Academic Remus, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Art Collector Sirius, Art History, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Sirius Black, Gay Remus Lupin, Gilderoy Lockhart continues to be present, I also don't know how we've got here, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, London, Minor Character Death, Multi, Snuffles the dog, Twenty-Somethings, like a lot, the saga continues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29981106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: Sirius decides to buy a gallery, and with Remus at his side, he continues his adventures in London alongside James, Lily, Marlene and Dorcas. After Peter's betrayal and the death of Sirius' father, the six think that they might finally be returning to some kind of normality.Only, all is not as it seems. With the return of Regulus to Sirius' life comes trouble—and not the good kind. The gang are soon tangled up in a web of intrigue, organised crime, and murder. The question is, who's making it out alive?
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: The Marauders' Map [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1326680
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	1. All the Ghosts They Could Not See

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited for this part of the story, I simply can't explain it. 
> 
> The chapters aren't named for songs this time, but instead inspired by some of my favourite pieces of art, just to keep things on theme. I'll include in the author's notes as I did with the songs in Caraway. 
> 
> This chapter is inspired by Salman Toor's _Rooftop Party with Ghosts 1_ (2015).

Platform 9 at Kings Cross was surprisingly empty. Either that, or it was just as busy as it usually would have been on a Friday morning in August, but everyone else had simply faded away as the sunlight caught the threads of Remus Lupin’s hair and made them shimmer like gold. It illuminated the delicious crookedness in the bridge of his nose. Freckles dashed across his cheeks like salt spray against a cliff face, with the sharp angle of his jaw giving way to the long lines of his neck and the hollow cove at the base of his throat. 

Sirius always said that it was fitting that sunlight made Remus glow gold, and moonlight cast his blond curls in silver. Fitting because Sirius thought he looked like a work of art. He was Helios at Rhodes, a burnished colossus; all long limbs and smooth planes and sharp corners. 

As it happened, Sirius was pretty well-versed in art; he worked as a buyer at a very upmarket gallery called Zabini’s in Fitzrovia, after all. He’d handled a private collection of Jacques-Louis David sketches earlier in the week that should have made his hands tremble with their majesty. Art of such consequence should have been embroidered into the fabric of his mind. In comparison to Remus, however, Sirius would have called the sketches nothing but a pauper’s offering when set beside the delights in front of him.

Remus looked up, amber eyes meeting Sirius’. “What?” he frowned. “You’re staring.” 

“Staring at you, yeah,” replied Sirius, pushing himself off the railing he’d been leaning against and moving to slip his hands around Remus’ waist. “I’m enjoying myself. Beats looking at poxy paintings all week; sometimes I wonder why I bother working in the art world when I’ve got you right here.” 

Remus snorted. “What a _line_. You need a cup of coffee, and to cool your jets.” 

Sirius chuckled, pressing his lips against Remus’ forehead in a brief kiss. Perhaps Remus had a point. 

They were standing on the platform surrounded by weekend bags, waiting for the Edinburgh train to pull up so they could board. Sirius, Remus, James, Lily, Marlene and Dorcas were heading north for a weekend celebrating the wedding of Mary Macdonald to Reg Cattermole, university friends they still kept up with. Sirius was thrilled, frankly, to have an excuse to get dressed up and drink more than his fair share. Going back to Scotland was going back to where they all met, their origin point—a nostalgic return to when the boys had lived at 10, Hepburn Avenue and the girls just next door. Sometimes it felt a lifetime away. 

“Coffee, Sirius!” came Marlene’s voice, drawing Sirius from his thoughts. He and Remus turned and moved back to stand with the others. James and Lily—their relationship Lazarus-like and still taking shaking, cautious steps after the mother of all break-ups—were leaning against the back of a bench. James lifted a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind Lily’s ear as she chattered to him, glancing up through her eyelashes and giving him coy, bashful smiles. Sirius grinned. They were lovesick, mad for one another—how on earth they thought they could live without each other was beyond him.

Marlene and Dorcas were also in those first, halcyon days. It wouldn’t really be accurate to say they stumbled into a relationship; it was more a case of hurtling around like renegade atoms and colliding. There’d be a terrible ex-girlfriend on Marlene’s part and a surprise coming-out on Dorcas’. As they waited for Remus and Sirius to join them, though, they looked like being together was the most natural thing in the world; as though they had been supposed to end up together, and simply took their time getting there. 

Marlene held out a coffee to Sirius. “Here you go.” 

“Thanks, doll. Was it busy?” Sirius took the cup with a grateful smile. 

“It’s an overpriced American coffee shop in a train station,” scoffed Dorcas, handing Remus his drink. “Of course it was busy.” 

Sirius chuckled. He took a gulp of cappuccino from the enormous cup Marlene had given him, and grimaced. He looked down at the coffee with distaste. “God, that’s terrible.” 

“Well, I wasn’t hoofing it over to St Pancras to the decent coffee shop,” replied Marlene breezily, taking a noisy slurp from some kind of whipped cream monstrosity she had ordered. “You asked for a cappuccino, I got you a cappuccino—you didn’t ask for a good one.” 

Remus crowed with laughter. “She’s got a point there, Pads. Sometimes it’s good not to be a coffee snob, you know. Those of us who grew up on Nescafe granules are prepared for moments such as this.” 

Sirius opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t a coffee snob, thank you very much, but simply someone in possession of tastebuds. He was, however, interrupted by the overhead tannoy. 

_“The 09:27 train to Edinburgh is now approaching Platform 9. Please stand clear of the doors to allow passengers to depart, and please mind the gap between the train and the platform. The 09:27 train to Edinburgh is now approaching Platform 9.”_

“Hey, lovebirds!” Sirius called, catching James and Lily’s attention. He jerked his head towards the train that was just appearing out of the tunnel on the approach to the platform. “Time to move.” 

The six of them bundled onto the train. They’d booked to sit together, four seats around a table and another two across the aisle. It was the usual nonsense trying to get themselves sorted— _ow! James, you’re on my foot!_ —but they eventually got settled. There was an air about them of children going on a summer holiday: gleeful, good-natured squabbling over seats and people watching as the final call for boarding came over the tannoy. It would be good to get out of London for a weekend—to leave behind the pressures of work and life. Sirius in particular had been busy as anything recently. He’d come into rather a large sum of money recently in the wake of his father’s death—on top of the already large sum sitting in his bank account from his Uncle Alphard’s unfortunate demise—and had begun negotiations with the bank about a mortgage. Sirius wanted to buy somewhere he could start a gallery, preferably with space for all of them. He didn’t want to go anywhere without his family, after all. 

As the train pulled out of the station, Sirius rested his frankly revolting coffee on the table in front of him, and looked up. 

“Please tell me someone remembered to bring the playing cards,” he said suddenly, looking between James and Remus. “I can’t face five hours to Edinburgh without something to do.”

“Fear not,” replied James, nodding towards his rucksack in the overhead rack. “Playing cards, and Backpacker, and that travel Monopoly set that we’ve never used.”

“We’ve never used it because you always let Lily win at Monopoly,” said Remus mildly, taking a sip of his coffee. "What would be the point?"

“ _Rude_.”

The first hour of the journey passed easily. The six of them discussed the wedding—Marlene, Dorcas and Lily were bridesmaids, with Mary’s sister, Martha, as her maid of honour. They’d been fitted for their bridesmaid dresses earlier in the summer and were astonished to find that not only were they tasteful and definitely something they could re-wear, but also something that suited each of them. The dark blue looked regal against Dorcas’ ochre skin, brought out the cool tones of Marlene’s eyes, and sat in beautiful contrast to Lily’s fiery hair. As Marlene pointed out, they might actually look half-decent in the wedding pictures at that rate. 

“I saw photos of my sister’s bridesmaid dresses on Instagram,” Lily said darkly. “Let me tell you—I’ve never been more thrilled not to have been invited to that wedding.” 

“What colour were they?” asked Marlene. 

“Lemon yellow.”

“ _Ew._ ”

Can you imagine me in lemon yellow? With my hair, I’d look like an anaemic Tequila Sunrise.” 

Remus returned at that moment as the others laughed at Lily, clutching a cold bottle of champagne. Sirius did a double take. They’d sent him for drinks—admittedly unspecified drinks—and expected him to return with, at best, beer or those small and extremely terrible bottles of white wine that only seemed to be available on trains or aeroplanes. Remus didn’t tend to go in for champagne; rosé or tequila were his vices.

Sirius laughed. “Mouse! You know bottles are always so overpriced on trains.” 

“Don’t remind me,” grimaced Remus, stuffing the receipt into his pocket and beginning to hand round the six little plastic wine glasses he’d been given. 

James checked his watch. “It’s also half past ten in the morning.” 

“Oh live a little, Prongs,” replied Remus with an uncharacteristic waspishness that made Sirius bite the inside of his cheek in an attempt not to laugh. 

Remus popped the cork off the bottle of champagne, gesturing for people to hold out their glasses for him to fill. Sirius watched him do it. He studied the way Remus’ long fingers worked the cork out of the bottle, the steady hand decanting the golden liquid into their cheap vessels. Sirius loved Remus’ hands. He loved everything about them—the callouses, the ink stains, the fingernails bitten to the quick during late nights in front of a stack of books and a notebook. He loved the way that Remus’ hands slotted into his own; carved of the same stone, those hands anchored his own. 

“Pads?” Remus asked, holding out a glass. 

Sirius blinked a couple of times and took it with a smile. “Sorry, miles away there,” he said. 

“Cheers, gang.” James lifted his glass and the others followed suit, knocking their glasses together with dull _clunks_. “And here’s to Mary and Reg, eh?” 

“Remember the night they met?” Lily said, sipping her champagne thoughtfully.

“Oh my God, that Christmas ball in our final year!” Marlene cackled and tapped her fingers against the tabletop in delight. “You two—“ she nodded across the aisle to James and Lily— “had finally got your act together and started dating, and Sirius and Remus were only just together as well. Dorcas was still pretending to be straight at that point.” 

“Well, we’ve all grown,” replied Dorcas, grimacing and taking a healthy gulp of her drink. “Mary had finally—thank God—ended things with terrible Benjy Fenwick.” 

“I still can’t believe they dated for, what, three years?” Sirius asked. “I went to school with Benjy, he was weird enough then…” 

“I think saying they were dating for three years is generous,” replied Marlene cooly. “It was eighteen months of dating, eighteen months of hate fucking. Big difference.” 

“Yes, and you’d know all about hate fucking, wouldn’t you, Marls?” interjected Dorcas to the raucous laughter of the rest of them. 

Marlene rolled her eyes and grinned, elbowing Dorcas in the side. Her unhealthy, protracted, definitely-not-a-relationship with Hestia Jones had once upon a time been an issue that they skirted around; Marlene had responded to any suggestion that the relationship was a disaster with an uncharacteristic viciousness. Nowadays, however, she encouraged the joking, the gentle teasing at that chapter of her life. After all, it had been a chapter for all of them—their lives were entwined by that point, the six of them. As Sirius often said, Marlene getting over Hestia was the best thing she could have done; seeing Dorcas and Marlene happy together after that absolute shitstorm was the icing on the cake. 

A buzz from Sirius’ pocket took his attention away from Marlene and Dorcas. There was another buzz, and then another, and he realised that it was a phone call not a text that was vibrating his pocket. Setting down his champagne, he hastily pulled his phone from his pocket. 

The name on the screen did not inspire any confidence in Sirius that the conversation he was about to have would be pleasurable. Quite the opposite, in fact—there were few other names coming up on his phone that would have made the bile in his throat rise higher, or the hairs on the back of his neck stand up taller. 

“Oh hell,” muttered Sirius, glowering down at his phone, “why is Regulus calling me?”

Sirius slipped out from the table, giving a pained grimace in response to Remus’ curious look. He walked quickly down the central aisle of the train towards the vestibule, thinking hard. A phone call from Regulus could never be a good thing. They’d agreed to work on their relationship in the wake of their father’s death—it was a cautious, uncomfortable relationship, but a relationship nonetheless. However, the brothers had been careful to restrict their conversations to texts, or over the awkward beers they’d started sharing every couple of weeks. They absolutely did not speak on the phone for anything other than disasters. 

Sirius reached the vestibule between the carriages. Swaying slightly as the train took a bend, he took the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “What do you want?” 

Regulus didn’t bother with a preamble. “It’s Mother.” 

“Oh?” Sirius raised his eyebrows, staring out the window at a herd of cows. “Dead or in prison?” 

“Neither,” bit back Regulus. “She’s been suspended from the Slytherin Club.”

“What do you mean?” Sirius blinked rapidly and made a face. The Slytherin Club was a private members’ club in Mayfair that the Black family practically ruled—he and Regulus had had their names down for membership since before their births. Their father had died earlier in the year and with that, Sirius had become the 14th Earl of Grimmauld. He could, in theory, turn up to the Slytherin Club whenever he wanted, and expect green-jacketed footmen to attend to his every whim, to wait on him simply by virtue of the blood in his veins. Sirius felt sick at the very thought. 

Remus spoke through gritted teeth. “She was drunk and, well… she decked Elspeth Warrington.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“The Countess of Warrington,” hissed Regulus. “She bloody punched her in the face.” 

Sirius allowed that astonishing piece of information to wash over him, swaying on the spot as the train took a bend. Then, quite powerless to stop himself, Sirius began to laugh. It started as a snigger, erupting into a full-bodied, shoulder-shaking guffaw that made one of the ticket inspectors jump as she passed through the vestibule. Sirius raised a hand in apology, and wiped at his eyes. 

“Oh my God, that’s amazing. Who’d have thought Walburga had the potential to be a heavyweight champion?” he sniggered. 

“Stop fucking laughing,” Regulus growled. “It’s not funny. She was asked to leave, in front of everyone—and yes, I mean everyone, including Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of that filthy fucking tabloid.” 

“The Daily Prophet?” 

“Yes. He was standing there on the stairs with Viscount Avery and some Russian—Karamazov, Karkaroff, something like that. Practically purred when it happened. It’s only a matter of time before it’s splashed all over the newspaper and—“

Sirius cut him off with a roll of his eyes and a tut. “Regulus, I don’t care who else was there. I want to know why you’re calling.” 

“She needs help, Sirius. She needs to go to rehab.” 

“I don’t know why you’re telling me that.” 

“I thought that we could—“ 

“There’s no _we_ with her, Regulus,” Sirius said, cutting his brother off again. “If you rang me to ask you to help you get Walburga bloody Black into rehab, then I can’t actually express to you how wrong you’ve got this situation. You and I? We’re working on whatever weird relationship this is. Walburga and I? I’d like to see her set on fire while I enjoy a cold glass of something.”

Regulus let out a long, low hiss. “Well, don’t bloody blame me when something’s published in the papers about her being a menace, then!” 

“Why would I care about that? She _is_ a menace! It’s about time someone other than me said it.” 

“I doubt you keep up with this sort of thing, but you should know that the Marquis Lestrange died earlier in the week. Rodolphus has now inherited the title, which means that—“

“Bellatrix is finally the Marchioness,” finished Sirius, clarity dawning. “Now I see what this is about. It’s got nothing to do with helping Mother—I’m fairly certain she’s passed the point of no return, if I’m honest with you. This is about protecting the family image, isn’t it? Buttering up the press so that there’s no negative light shed on _darling_ Bellatrix now that everyone will be interested in her extremely boring husband. I can’t believe she’s got you doing her dirty work, Regulus.” 

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and for a moment, Sirius wondered if he had gone too far. With Narcissa married to the future Duke of Malfoy, and Bellatrix to the now Marquis Lestrange, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had its grips on the most powerful aristocratic families in the country. They had influence over the corridors of power—the Prime Minister dined with the Malfoys at least once a week, Sirius knew that. If Bellatrix’s father-in-law had died, then the press would be sniffing around like bloodhounds, and the last thing any of the family would want was a scandal. That said, perhaps it wasn’t fair for Sirius to have blamed Regulus, to have accused him of doing Bellatrix’s and their mother’s dirty work. He hadn’t left, after all. Perhaps Regulus was simply doing what he needed to survive. 

“Can’t it be both?” Regulus said finally. There was something resigned in his tone, like he knew that he’d lost the battle already but wasn’t willing to admit it just yet. “Can’t it be that I think our mother needs to be in rehab, and that I don’t think our family needs any more press scrutiny than we’re getting already? All I’m asking for is a little help.” 

_Our_ mother. _Our_ family. Regulus had used those words very deliberately, Sirius was certain. They stirred something enraged and furious beneath Sirius’ ribcage. 

“Regulus,” he said firmly. “I’m on the train to Edinburgh for Mary’s wedding. Even if I wanted to help—which I really, _really_ don’t—I’m not in London. Call Uncle Cygnus and ask where Bellatrix went when she was in rehab. He’ll be able to help more than I can.” 

“Why am I always the one responsible for sorting these things out?” Regulus’ voice had taken on a petulant air. “I’m always the one who’s got to pick up the damn pieces.” 

“Because you refuse to stop being involved with our family, don’t you? Don’t come crying to me about _responsibility_ because you’ve not got the balls to walk away.” 

“It’s more cowardly to have run away than it is to stay, Sirius.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been over this—we both think we’re the martyr here.” Sirius rolled his eyes again and checked his watch, as the tannoy above announced that they were approaching Grantham. Behind him in the carriage, the others would probably have purchased another bottle of champagne and would be dealing out a game of Backpacker, Sirius’ absolute favourite card game. 

Finally, with a hearty and dramatic sigh, Regulus was the first to cave. “Alright,” he muttered, “I can tell I’m not going to make any progress on changing your mind about Mother.” 

Sirius breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he replied, screwing up his face. He meant it—this wasn’t about Regulus. After years of not speaking, the two of them were taking the first, tentative steps towards some kind of amicable relationship, but it wasn’t easy. Sirius wanted a brother without the trappings of the family he despised; that wasn’t really possible. Regulus wanted a brother who took his title and his status more seriously—that wasn’t an option, either. At present, they were inhabiting a rapidly shrinking middle ground. Sirius wasn’t giving up his part of it for anything. 

“Are we still on for Tuesday night, by the way?” continued Sirius. He and Regulus had arranged to meet for a drink. 

Regulus hummed. “Yeah, I’ll send you the address of the pub. It’s some small gig thing, but the band’s quite good. Unless that’s not your thing, we can do something else if you’d like.” 

“No, no,” Sirius said hurriedly. “That sounds fine. Nice—it sounds nice, actually.”

“Right, well, I’d best be off then. I think I can hear Mother getting up. I’ll text you.” 

With a click, Regulus was gone. Sirius lowered the phone from his ear and gave it a long, thoughtful look. 

“One day,” he muttered to himself, ignoring the odd look he got from a woman waiting by the bathroom on the other side of the vestibule, “I might actually understand that boy.” 


	2. Collaborators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius gets a nasty surprise in the Daily Prophet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: Alex Nabaum’s 2016 illustration for Journalism and Art: Complementary and Collaborative Storytellers

September in London can go one of two ways. It can be an Indian summer, a long, yawning end to the season with days stretching out in hot, lazy bliss. Every day is treated rather dramatically like it might be the last sunshine before the spring; parks are packed with people, bars spilling over onto the street as friends and colleagues go for _a drink outside, while the weather’s still nice_. Or, September can be a precocious autumn, a sharp shock to the system. It can usher in the changing of the seasons with grey skies and squalling winds. It paves the way for October to slink in, a calendar of drizzle.

That September 1st was, thankfully, of the sunny variety. Sirius left Caraway Street early, briefcase in one hand and his suit jacket hanging over his shoulder. The city was just awakening. It promised to be a beautiful day, and Sirius relished the feel of the still-cool, dew-laden air against his face as he walked to the tube station. After his three-day weekend away in Edinburgh, he was already dreading the state of his inbox. 

The wedding that weekend had been a riotous success. Sirius had drunk too much and danced too much, and may have even shed a tear as Mary Macdonald and Reg Cattermole stood in St Giles’ Cathedral, Edinburgh, and exchanged their vows. He’d worn matching ties with Remus and James, and passed his pocket square to James to wipe his eyes when he saw Lily in her bridesmaid’s dress. The Marauders and the girls had returned to London on the Sunday afternoon train, swapping out the champagne they’d had on the way up for paracetamol and sparkling water in the hopes of taming their raging hangovers. They may have been older and somewhat wiser since they left university, but some things never change. 

Sirius was the first to arrive at the gallery that morning; it was unsurprising, really, considering his watch said half-seven. There was something soothing, though, about being the first person to switch on the lights—to turn off the alarms and do the sweep of the gallery to ensure that everything was where it should be. Sirius imagined what it would be like to be opening up his own gallery in the morning. He hoped that unlike his boss, Madame Zabini, he’d always be the person to open up for the day; something about it felt grounding. 

Once the gallery was open, Sirius bustled around making a drink in the kitchen at the back of the building. Then, with cup of coffee in hand, he settled himself into his cramped office and set to work. 

“Right,” Sirius muttered to himself, “what nonsense is there for me today?” 

As expected, his inbox was a nightmare. Sirius was half-convinced that people waited until he was out of office to send him emails labelled “urgent”, just so that they could then send follow-up emails with tones of increasing desperation. There were the usual ones from people wanting somewhere to display their art, accompanied by blurry photos of frankly terrible paintings—they were automatically deleted. There were about seven from Madame Zabini’s import broker, a shady man who ran a business called Borgin & Burke. Sirius didn’t think he’d ever been told the man’s name, which left him constantly trying to guess whether he was Borgin _or_ Burke. It didn’t help that he only signed his emails as “B”. Sirius idly wondered as he scrolled through the emails whether he could just delete all of them, claim a computer malfunction, and wait for the genuinely important stuff to get sent again. 

A couple of hours passed. It was only when Sirius almost knocked over his cup and realised that he’d entirely forgotten to actually drink the coffee he made that he decided to stop. Stretching, he meandered back towards the main gallery in search of a fresh cup of coffee and in the hopes that someone might have opened a packet of biscuits. 

Gilderoy Lockhart, Madame Zabini’s overenthusiastic assistant and the gallery’s general dogsbody, sat behind the reception desk. Lockhart was one of the most dramatic men Sirius had ever met, and he included himself in that number. Today, he was dressed in a lilac suit with a mauve tie and matching pocket square, with his blond hair combed back into its usual dramatic quiff. Sirius thought that for once, Lockhart didn’t look quite as insane as usual—then again, anything was better than the bizarre magenta caped situation that Lockhart wore on a weekly basis during the winter months. 

Sirius and Lockhart had always had a somewhat uncomfortable relationship. When Lockhart found out that Sirius had become the Earl of Grimmauld, he’d insisted on calling Sirius by his full title, despite protestations to the contrary. It was only after Sirius had threatened to shove a statue into one of the lesser-known cavities of Lockhart’s body that he relented, and finally come to terms with simply calling him Sirius. 

“Morning, Gilderoy,” Sirius said with a smile. “Good weekend?” 

Lockhart looked at him with a rather odd stare. Sirius stopped in front of the reception desk and gave him a sideways glance, frowning. “What? You’re looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.” 

“You’re in the papers this morning,” Lockhart said stiffly. 

“What?” scoffed Sirius, turning and looking down at the copy of The Daily Prophet, one of London’s most insidious tabloids, which sat on Lockhart’s desk. Something anxious and bile-like burned in the centre of Sirius’ chest. He set down his cold cup of coffee and snatched up the paper without asking, ignoring the cry of protest from Lockhart. 

Sirius scanned the front page. There was some big splash of news about a politician being caught in an affair— _what was new?_ —and a couple of side columns about this autumn’s fashion trends. Down in the bottom righthand corner, however, next to a brief weather forecast of the week, was an article preview that made Sirius’ blood run cold. 

_The British aristocracy, it read, is never too far away from a scandal. Rita Skeeter, our Society Editor, has uncovered rather an unusual bit of intrigue surrounding one of London’s most elite families—the Blacks of Grimmauld. (Continued on p. 8)._

“Why do you buy this rag?” asked Sirius with more vehemence than he’d intended. He snapped his eyes up to look at Lockhart, scowling. 

“I like the recipes,” stuttered Lockhart, eyes going wide. 

“Haven’t you got any work to be doing? Or does Madame Zabini pay you to read tabloids every day?” Sirius asked waspishly, and Lockhart practically recoiled at the venom in Sirius’ words. He regretted them as soon as he’d said them; Lockhart might have been an overdramatic idiot, but it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t the one writing the articles, after all. 

Sirius turned and stalked back to his office, the paper under his arm. His cold cup of coffee was left perched on Lockhart’s desk, forgotten. He could feel Lockhart’s eyes on him and he left and he thought about turning round, apologising then and there and handing the newspaper back to Lockhart with an apologetic smile. A battle raged in his mind between blissful ignorance and morbid curiosity. 

Curiosity won out. Sirius hurried from the main gallery, down the corridor and back upstairs to his office. He thanked whatever deity might exist that Madame Zabini was nowhere to be seen—the last thing he needed was her ability to see through him in an instant, and her uncanny way of knowing absolutely every piece of gossip flying round London at any given moment. With a slam of his office door, Sirius threw himself behind his desk and flicked through the pages to Rita Skeeter’s article. 

He began to read. 

_Readers of my column will no doubt be aware,_ wrote Skeeter, _of the death earlier in the year of Orion Black, 13th Earl of Grimmauld. Rumours abound at the moment regarding an incident between his widow, Walburga, and the Countess of Warrington at the elite private members’ club, the Slytherin Club. The Dowager Countess could sadly not be reached for comment._

_Orion Black’s heir, the then-Viscount Black, was his eldest son, Sirius; he had been estranged from his family for some years, although the Daily Prophet is yet to find out quite why. The young Sirius Black was already in possession of a large fortune following the death of his uncle, Alphard Black. Alphard ran a number of successful businesses, including a reputation management company, Hydra Communications, where Sirius is still on the board. However, it seems that the new Earl of Grimmauld has made good use of his new title and inheritance, but no attempts to return to the fold._

_An anonymous source has revealed to this column that the new Earl has not taken up residence at the family’s London address at Grimmauld Place, nor has he decided to settle down at the ancient Black seat in Scotland, Lycoris Castle. Instead, he has been living for over a year on Caraway Street in Muswell Hill. Parked outside his residence is a sleek Jaguar XF, no doubt either inherited from his father or purchased with what must have been a fairly sizeable inheritance. The young Earl seems to have taken to his new title like a duck to water._

“That was Alphard’s car, you stupid, stupid woman,” hissed Sirius, and kept reading. 

_Dolores Umbridge, a local Conservative councillor who also lives on Caraway Street, was contacted for comment, and had this to say: “The Earl of Grimmauld moved in last year. He lives with a rather unusual group of young people, and their neighbours are that pair of odd lawyers, McGonagall and Dumbledore. The flashy car will undoubtedly be attracting the attention of all kinds of thieves who now know there’s plenty of money to be had round here. I personally think we ought to seriously think about introducing a residents’ code of conduct for the street. What’s more, I know for a fact that the Earl of Grimmuald was instrumental in donating a very sizeable sum to the new Muswell Hill Arts Centre, a most divisive LGBT project that is causing quite a considerable rift in the community. He clearly has no respect for the delicate balance of community life.”_

Sirius snorted in disgust. “Fuck off, Dolores,” he said under his breath, “you homophobic old cow.” 

_When it comes to the aristocracy, the opening line of Pride and Prejudice still seems appropriate: “a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” Or, as in the case of Sirius Black, perhaps the phrase is worth a modern update: a single man in possession of a huge fortune might be in want of a husband. My anonymous source was also kind enough to reveal that the Earl of Grimmauld is living with a boyfriend by the name of Remus Lupin. Perhaps it’s the living in sin that’s preventing the young Earl from returning to his family’s home…_

_In other society news, the Cheltenham Races…_

Sirius groaned. He rested his head against the desk and squeezed his eyes shut. The rest of the article would be nothing important, he knew that; Rita Skeeter wasn’t known for burying the lede. She was reliable for starting her pieces with her juiciest bit of gossip—and today’s offering was Sirius. No, he thought, a sudden wave of nausea making him grip onto the desk, it wasn’t Sirius that Rita Skeeter had spread out like carrion for the vultures. It was Remus. 

_Fuck._

She’d named Remus. 

Sirius had always known that he’d be a target for revenge in one way or another by the life he left behind. He had been kicked out of Grimmauld Place by his parents at the age of sixteen, but he’d managed to land on his feet thanks to his Uncle Alphard. Sirius knew that angered his mother more than anything. She hated the fact that not only was her son an infernal disappointment, but that her brother had offered him a lifeline. Sirius was convinced that Walburga had hoped he would have to struggle and suffer alone in the world, either to the point of disaster, or to the point of slinking back to her. She wanted Sirius with his tail between his legs, broken like a gelding, ripe for her to mould into the perfect heir she’d always wanted him to be. 

Sirius knew the anger that bubbled among the aristocratic circles his family moved in. They found him an embarrassment, a tawdry stain on a millennia of noble history. Sirius’ outspoken calls for the abolishment of the aristocracy, for the reform of the House of Lords, for the removal of hereditary peers from British politics—all of it was like a stone in the shoe of the aristocrats that Sirius had left behind. There was no short list of people who would want to offer information to the tabloids that might pressure Sirius to keep silent. 

Remus, though—this was personal. Sirius sat up, staring into the middle distance, thinking hard. Someone—someone who knew where they lived—had told Rita Skeeter about him and Remus. While his list of enemies was long, Sirius had deliberately kept his relationship with Remus away from the prying eyes of any of his aristocratic connections. His social media accounts were all private for that very reason—so that there was a modicum of protection between his new life and his old one. The list of people who might have tipped off Rita Skeeter had suddenly got a lot smaller. 

Sirius sat back in his chair. He stared down in disgust at the newspaper once again, before snatching it up and spinning around in his desk chair towards his open window. With the accuracy of a spear-throwing Spartan, Sirius hurled the newspaper out of the window and down to the street below. 

* * *

“Shit, fuck, balls, bugger, arse.” 

“Good evening to you too, Sirius.” 

Sirius looked up. The door to their flat at 11, Caraway Street was always sticky; you had to shove a shoulder hard against the wood in order to get it open. In doing so, Sirius had tripped, sending the briefcase in his hand flying across the threshold and into the miserable potted fern that they hadn’t managed to kill yet, and the door swinging backwards to collide loudly with the wall. Sirius didn’t need to check to know that there would almost certainly be a dent in the plaster. Instead, he looked up to catch Remus’ gaze with his own. 

Standing in the low evening light, Remus looked as beautiful as he ever had. His sweater was rolled up to his elbows, exposing the freckle-dappled skin of his forearms. His amber eyes looked inquisitive, but there was a dullness to their usual glitter. Remus looked tired. Sirius remembered with a pang of guilt that he’d managed to wake Remus up when he left the house at an ungodly hour that morning—Sirius had meant to pick up a bunch of flowers by way of apology. At least, that had been the plan before Sirius had seen the story in the Daily Prophet, and the rest of the day had been given over to fury. 

“Remus…” Sirius began, swallowing as he tried to find the right words to explain the day’s events. 

He didn’t need to. Remus gave him a small, resigned smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve already seen. Got a few WhatsApps from uni friends—apparently we hang around with people with terrible taste in newspapers. Rita Skeeter, eh?” 

“I am really fucking sorry,” whispered Sirius. He could feel tears stinging his eyes and a lump rising in his throat, his voice shaking with emotion. “I’m so sorry that they’ve exposed our home.” 

“Come here,” murmured Remus, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. His hands met Sirius’ shoulders and Sirius allowed himself to melt into the soft press of Remus’ body. He wanted to be consumed by that moment—just the two of them, standing in the soft light of the hall lamp. Somewhere in the background, Sirius could hear the sound of a record playing softly, and felt that lump rise in his throat again. 

Sirius didn’t know how long they stood there. All he knew was that the tears he’d been suppressing all day began to fall as he buried his face into Remus’ sweater-clad shoulder. The fabric was old and worn, soft against Sirius’ cheeks, and smelled of laundry detergent, Remus’ soap, and old books. Half of Remus’ clothing smelled like old books and manuscript paper; he’d started a PhD only a week earlier, and was already up to his elbows in source material. Sirius let out a soft chuckle at the scent. 

“What are you laughing at?” Remus asked. 

“You smell like a library.” 

“I spend quite a lot of time in them, it’s to be expected. Come on,” Remus said quietly, pressing a swift kiss to Sirius’ temple and smoothing down his hair. “Come and let me make you a cup of tea.” 

Sirius felt bereft the moment that Remus stepped away from him. He wanted to reach out a hand and tug Remus back to him, insist that Remus wrap his arms around him once more. Sirius pushed that urge down and followed. He wanted to find the right words to express what he was feeling—the shame, the regret, the anger—in such a way that Remus might understand that this was bigger than just one article in one newspaper ruining one day. When it came to Sirius’ family, it was always bigger than that. 

Sirius swallowed, standing in the kitchen doorway, watching Remus. Clearly, Remus could sense Sirius’ eyes on him because he turned, looking back at Sirius in confusion. 

“Are you going to hang around in that doorway all night?” 

“They named you, Remus.” 

“Quite exciting, isn’t it? It’s the first time I’ve had my name in the newspaper, and my parents will be thrilled to learn it’s not for anything nefarious, nor is it because I’ve even done anything remarkable other than have great taste in men. I might get some kind of book deal out of this—“ Remus gestured in the air with his hand— “ _Down and Dirty with the Duke_ , by Remus Lupin.” 

“I’m an Earl.”

“It’s a working title.” 

Sirius ran a frustrated hand through his hair, gesticulating with the other one as he stepped into the room properly. “For God’s sake, Mouse! Can’t you take this seriously?” 

The corners of Remus’ mouth twitched and Sirius thought for an honest second that he might be about to make some kind of serious/Sirius joke. Fortunately for everyone involved, Remus didn’t. Instead, he moved across the kitchen, pulling their favourite chipped mugs from the cupboard and reaching for the tin of teabags. 

Sirius ground his teeth. “You’re—“

“I am taking this seriously,” Remus interrupted, filling the kettle. He returned it to the stand and flicked it on. “I know what I signed up for with you. I don’t need you to tell me what it means that they named me, or told everyone where we live. Funnily enough, after knowing you for as long as I have, and loving you for almost all of that time, I’ve paid quite a bit of attention over the years to what you have to say about the press and the aristocracy. Nothing you’re about to say is going to be new.” 

Sirius bit his lip. He’d been speaking about his hatred of all tabloid newspapers ever since he met Remus and James, that was true. He saw them as enablers to all the corruption and nefariousness of the aristocratic class. The papers’ addiction to upper class scandal and their willingness to turn a blind eye to deception and malfeasance, in return for juicy bits of gossip, made them just as guilty in Sirius’ eyes as his family were. 

“Sit,” Remus commanded, gesturing at the table. He set the cup of tea down and nodded at it. “I’ll make you something to eat.” 

“Mouse, it’s ok, I don’t—“

Remus interrupted. “You need to eat,” he said firmly. “I promise, this won’t all seem quite as awful when you’ve eaten something and had a cup of tea. Really, Pads.” 

Sirius did as he was bidden. He shucked off his jacket and shoes and took a seat at the table. He’d not realised quite how tense he’d been all day—how his shoulders were aching with the tension, how the muscles of his neck felt stretched to near breaking point. He reached out a hand to gratefully take up the cup of tea that Remus had made him—when was the last time he’d had something to drink? Sirius was suddenly acutely aware of how thirsty he was, how his eyes stung and his mouth was dry. He drank with eagerness. 

“Eat,” Remus said a few minutes later, placing a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of Sirius. “You’ll feel better.” 

Sirius once again did as Remus asked. In less depressing circumstances, he might have pointed out that doing as he was told twice in a row surely constituted a minor miracle. As it stood, Sirius was grateful for the food and began scarfing it down as though it might be taken from him at any moment. Remus refilled the now-empty mug of tea and set it beside Sirius again, before taking his seat across the table. He seemed far too relaxed, Sirius thought, for a man who’d just had his name splashed all over the national press. For a brief moment, Sirius entertained the idea that it had been Remus who was the anonymous source speaking to Rita Skeeter; that there was some grand plan involved in telling everyone where they lived. That would explain the fact that Remus seemed utterly nonplussed by having his name in the newspaper. 

Sirius shook himself. Conspiracy theories about his boyfriend were not going to help. 

He cleared his throat, and took a sip of the fresh tea Remus had made him. “It’s going to be like this for the rest of my life, you know that, right? Maybe not every week, or even every month, but there’s always going to be someone snooping around for a scandal to sell the papers.” 

Remus inclined his head and gave a lazy shrug. “I know.” 

“And they’ll probably try and find out things about you, now you name’s out there,” continued Sirius, setting his knife and fork down. “They might turn up at uni, sniff around for gossip.” 

Remus cocked his head to one side. “Are you trying to convince me to break up with you? Because I’m not going to, if that was your aim.” 

“No.” Sirius squeezed his eyes shut with frustration. “I’m just trying to explain that this isn’t a passing phase where they’ll be interested for a bit and once it’s over, we can go back to being Serious and Remouse, in our flat with our smelly mutt—Snuffles, not James. Why do you think I’ve always tried to keep all of that… that _life_ at arm’s length? I never wanted you or anyone else to have to put up with it.” 

“Sirius, for fuck’s sake.” It was Remus who was irritated now. He leant across the table and looked Sirius hard in the eye. “Would you listen to me for once, you obstinate man? I know what this means. You keep telling me the same things over and over as though you’re hoping that I’m going to suddenly get cold feet and want out. It’s insulting.” 

Sirius swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly, seeing Remus’ point. “Look, that article… there’s an anonymous source in it, right? It’s not Umbridge—she straight up put her name to her comments, at least I’ll give her that. I’m not sure my mother knows where I live, and she definitely doesn’t know your name; that’s the bit that’s worrying me. This feels personal, Remus. It’s someone who knows us—not just me, _us_.” 

Remus reached out and tore a piece of crust off Sirius’ toast. “Riddle found us, didn’t he? Surely that means that any of those people he brought with him also know where we live.” 

Remus was referring to earlier in the year, when Tom Riddle—or, to use his aristocratic name, Lord Voldemort—had turned up at their flat with a bunch of his cronies, wanting to speak to Sirius. He and Sirius had history; plenty of history. Riddle had supplied drugs to half of the people Sirius went to boarding school with, and his supplies had caused the death of one Corban Yaxley when he and Sirius were just eighteen. It was before university, before Sirius had even met Remus or James or anyone else, but he was the same now as he was back then. While the crime had been blamed on some local dealer who’d received a hefty jail sentence, Sirius put two-and-two together and got the truth. He’d spoken up. He’d tried to tell the authorities, tried to tell anyone who would listen that it was Riddle who’d been responsible. That defiance against the aristocratic order had only served to make Sirius a hell of a lot of enemies. 

“I don’t think he knows who you are, though,” Sirius pressed. “That’s the point I’m making. Someone who knows me, and knows where I live, also knows about you—that list has got to be pretty small, right? If I can come up with a list, then maybe I can take it to Rita Skeeter and get her to—“

Remus interrupted with a brisk _tsk!_ noise. “Sirius, Rita Skeeter is a good for nothing tabloid journalist who probably overheard that piece of information quite by chance. Don’t read so much into it, it will drive you mad. The world didn’t end today, my love,” he said confidently, and slid his hand into Sirius’. “I promise you, this will all blow over and we’ll be alright.” 

Sirius nodded. He desperately wanted to believe Remus, because he could tell that Remus’ will to continue the conversation about Rita Skeeter was rapidly diminishing. Sirius supposed that Remus might be right—perhaps he was overreacting, and perhaps it would blow over. There would always be another politician’s affair to expose, or another tax evasion scandal for Skeeter to get her hands on. The small name _Remus Lupin_ would soon be forgotten, wouldn’t it? 

“Ok,” Sirius said hoarsely, against his better judgement, “ok.” 


End file.
